


It's perfect, it's passion, it's setting me free

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Birthday Sex, M/M, Referenced Daddy Kink, Rimming, lowkey sex tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And awash in the candelit glow, Jongdae’s waiting for him like the fucking gift he is. The fucking gift he's made sure to make himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's perfect, it's passion, it's setting me free

Jongdae is in a snug pair of red boxers, freshly-showered, drenched in his favorite cologne. Half-hard at the thought of how tonight will play out, he’s pliant and spread open across Joonmyun's red _love making_ sheets. He’d changed them himself when he’d arrived an hour before because _we can't defile the good ones my parents got me for my housewarming, it's wrong_. 

And awash in the candelit glow, Jongdae’s waiting for him like the fucking gift he is. The fucking gift he's made sure to make himself. 

Joonmyun had known to expect him—Jongdae _had_ messaged asking for his door code, after all—but he still makes this small, surprised sound as he stumbles through his bedroom door. Still drops his messenger bag, handful of presents on the floor, still makes a big show of walking towards the bed with the most awful, most _sincere_ fucking _grin_ on his face because he's so moved, because he probably _appreciates_ the gesture and the fact that Jongdae would think of doing this for him. 

"Jongdae," he says, and the fondness is so thick that it nearly makes Jongdae squirm, ruin the wanton invitation of his body. “My present,” Joonmyun whispers before Jongdae has a chance to say it first, and his hand drags over Jongdae's bare thigh, an appraising caresses, his palm catching as it turns inwards, skates, stops at the hem of his boxers. 

Joonmyun’s handsome in his work clothes, pressed shirt and ironed slacks and cuffed sleeves, his hair slicked back and his throat bobbing beneath his purple tie. And Jongdae reaches out for him, pulls him closer. 

Grinning still, Joonmyun follows easily enough, knee-walking over him, clothed thighs grazing his sides. His ass brushes Jongdae’s cock, drawing a sharp hiss from between Jongdae’s lips. It’s heated and intentional, but even then Joonmyun’s still too fond and too soft for Jongdae’s taste. 

They’ll take it at a snail’s pace of adoration and appreciation if Jongdae lets Joonmyun guide. 

"You're wearing so many clothes," Jongdae breathes, grazing his hands over the offensive fabric, and Joonmyun laughs, but lets him tug off his tie, unbutton the first three buttons of his shirt. “Should be in your birthday suit, birthday boy.” 

"Well you're already naked."

"I'm not naked," Jongdae counters, spreading his thighs even more, wriggling his hips, drawing attention to his own offensive fabric. The boxers feel tighter than when he started, the fabric straining and pressing painfully against his erection. And Jongdae doesn’t know why he even went with the pretense of clothes.

Joonmyun hums in acknowledgment as his hand skims, thumbnail presses, and the smile in his eyes is suddenly darker and more predatory. And yes, so often when it’s at Joonmyun’s pace, it’s so slow and cruel cruel cruel. 

Jongdae groans as he rocks up into it. He clutches at Joonmyun’s biceps, tugging him forward hard, and Joonmyun is falling over him to kiss him—all too wonderfully willing, all hard, starched lines and offensive fabric and warm, wet mouth. 

Jongdae, with Joonmyun’s hand still pressed to his cock, and Joonmyun’s tongue in his mouth, melts further back into the mattress, drags him more fully on top, urging him with parted lips and encouraging sighs and biting fingernails to keep going. 

And Joonmyun’s kiss is deep with appreciation, heavy with fondness, thorough and toe-curlingly hot, but it’s still not quite where Jongdae wants it. Still a kiss that could last forever and never lead anywhere else, slow and cruel. So Jongdae grinds even harder, drags his teeth over Joonmyun’s bottom lip. 

And Joonmyun takes a hint, fingers deliciously clumsy as they stumble over his boxers, tug the material free. Parting his legs readily, rocking upwards, Jongdae encourages him once more. Joonmyun’s fingers, slide inwards to cup his ass, squeeze. He inhales sharply with a reverent curse. 

“You wore—” Joonmyun groans, fingers skating over the snug plug. It’s the blue one, Joonmyun favorite for the color, Jongdae’s for the stretch. His fingers press just briefly, causing it to shift, deep, deep inside, drag, drag, drag deep inside. And Jongdae trembles as he moans into Joonmyun’s throat.

“Yes,” he manages, breathy as Joonmyun twists it inside him—brief, brief, deep, deep, hot, hot. “You’re the birthday boy, and birthday boys shouldn’t have to work.”

Joonmyun pulls away, and he’s _grinning_ again. It’s the big goofy one that crinkles his whole face, makes him look like a kid getting his favorite present on Christmas. And _fuck_ , he’s so fucking handsome and so fucking _earnest_. The type to be touched that Jongdae fingered himself before Joonmyun came home.

And his facial expression is _entirely_ out of place, and Jongdae is sure to make it crack with another roll of his hips, bare cock dragging on Joonmyun’s pressed slacks. He arches his spine as he does it, drags his nipples across his starch button up with a shuddery moan, a lazy invitation and heated reminder

“Jongdae, I love you,” Joonmyun moans, sufficiently distracted, sufficiently affected, sufficiently motivated. He stamps the confession into Jongdae’s sternum with lingering bite. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I know,” Jongdae trills, then slides his hands around the nape of Joonmyun’s neck, molding there to drag him back towards his mouth. “I love you, too. Love you so much.”

Joonmyun's eyelashes flutter in that pretty way they always do when Jongdae says it, and fuck, he's just so easy to love. Fuck, it makes Jongdae's chest hurt sometimes.

“Wanna see? Enjoy the fruits of my labor?” Jongdae rolls over, crawls up the mattress before Joonmyun has a chance to respond. Arching his spine and parting his legs and wriggling his ass, Jongdae throws him a look over his shoulder, and Joonmyun groans again—deeper this time, but no less reverent. 

“All for me,” he whispers, palming from the dip of his lower back to the swell of his ass, and it sounds and feels like a prayer. 

“Yes,” Jongdae whispers back, sure to pop his lips and lid his eyes. The shudder, though, that isn’t for show. “Because it’s your birthday, birthday boy. And birthday boys should be spoiled rotten. Should get everything they want from their baby boys.”

Joonmyun doesn’t grin this time, but his face twists like he’s in pain. And it’s so fucking _easy_ sometimes. It’s distressing how easy it is. 

“It’s my birthday,” Joonmyun says. “Don’t tease me.”

But Jongdae, he knows that Joonmyun likes it when he teases, likes it soft and tender and sweet, too, but also likes it when Jongdae pushes and snarls and protests before losing himself and melting into the persuasion of his hot and heavy kisses and touches. Jongdae loves him, knows him. Knows it makes it sweeter, more rewarding. He knows. He knows. Even if it isn't about that tonight, is instead about all the impatient wantonness with none of the insolence, all of the shameless desire with none of the defiance.

Jongdae, sans claws, sans teeth, sans barbed demands for more. Just open and fragile and willing, all for Joonmyun.

“It’s my birthday,” Joonmyun repeats. 

And Joonmyun is urging Jongdae on his back to watch him, and Jongdae is following because it's Joonmyun's birthday and it's about him, Jongdae being and doing what he wants. 

“I’m not teasing,” Jongdae breathes, head lolling back to meet Joonmyun’s dark eyes. His lips are swollen, and his gelled hair is falling in tacky tendrils across his flushed forehead. And yes, this exactly how Jongdae wants him. “This is your birthday. Wanna be good for you.” 

“You’re already fucking perfect,” Joonmyun says, with all the earnestness in the world. And it’s painfully out of place, too, makes Jongdae’s heart ache, skin tighten. He bites his lower lip hard as Joonmyun just _stares_ at him. 

A snail’s pace of adoration and appreciation, so slow and so cruel and so utterly unsettling. 

Spread open and his for the taking, Jongdae’s skin burns everywhere Joonmyun is touching him. His entire body throbs with the dizzy desire for more. He feels bruised and burned and broken open already. 

“And all yours,” Jongdae whispers after three, four, five beats, arching toward the warm palm that settles on his hipbone. 

His bare cock grazes Joonmyun’s stiff, wrinkled shirt, skin catching on fabric, pearly white smearing on severe white. Jongdae trembles out a shuddery moan, grinds forward again on instinct. And maybe this is how Joonmyun likes him, what he’s been wanting and not having this entire time. 

“Turn over,” Joonmyun coaxes. His palm skates outwards, up, fingers briefly molding into tense, trembling muscle, soothing him, easing him pliant. “Wanna eat you out.”

And Jongdae listens because it’s his birthday and because it always, always undoes him just how much Joonmyun seems to love this, making Jongdae feel good just like this. Even, Jongdae registers with a heavy swallow, a heavier shudder, even on his birthday.

Jongdae positions himself on his hands and knees once more, less show in it this time, his knees trembling but back straight and fingers tense in the sheets. But Joonmyun still groans at the visual, murmurs something else probably cheesy and fucking _awful_ about his present and how much he loves it.

Jongdae head drops lower, his hands fisting tighter, and the fabric is too rough between his fingers, has been washed too many times for his sake.

Joonmyun’s own hand meanwhile sears a trail from the nape of his neck to the swell of his ass, slow and reverent, awful in it’s affection and appreciation. So cruel, cruel, cruel. 

His fingers—small, but steadying, burning, burning, burning—smooth before fanning, squeezing. 

It pushes the plug even deeper, and head heavy between his bent shoulders, Jongdae shivers, excruciatingly aware of the heat of Joonmyun’s body, the rustle of fabric, the scent of his aftershave, the wet perfection of his mouth as he drops a cursory kiss to the base of Jongdae’s spine. 

“Baby, baby, baby boy,” he whispers so soft that Jongdae can barely hear it, more a breath than a series of syllables, and his fingernails bite into Jongdae’s skin again. “Jongdae,” he rasps, dropping a wet, wet kiss to the cleft of his ass, dragging it down down down as Jongdae struggles to stay upright. 

His hand shifts, twists the glass plug inside him–fuck, fuck, fuck—before tugging it completely free. He discards it at the end of the bed as he hums into his skin again. 

Anticipation coils tight in Jongdae’s stomach, and Joonmyun drags his tongue lower, teases it over Jongdae’s quivering rim. Jongdae chokes on the most awfully pathetic sob, his body shuddering through the most awfully pathetic tremor. 

Joonmyun’s firm grasp is the only thing that keeps his upright then, tightening enough to sting, and the zip of pain makes his cock jerk against Joonmyun's bedsheets. The friction is dry, nearly painfully so, but he needs it too much to stop, wants it too much to hold back as he rocks into the sheets, back onto Joonmyun’s mouth. Insistent, persuasive, please, please, please. 

Joonmyun laves his tongue in response, succulent but still so slow. It’s messy and hot and wet and excruciating, but somehow still perfect, and a familiar flare of neediness curls deep in Jongdae’s gut. It’s so often denied, so often ignored, but Jongdae embraces it now, melting into the sheets with a breathy whimper but turning his face so that Joonmyun can hear. 

He deserves it, after all. It’s his birthday. He deserves everything his oversized hearts desires. 

But but but—

“I’m—I’m not gonna call you daddy,” Jongdae pants. “Even if it’s your birthday”

Joonmyun hums in acknowledgment, the sound pressed hot and wet and deep, and Jongdae’s legs tremble so badly they threaten to collapse—again. 

“I’m not,” Jongdae continues, jaw falling slack as Joonmyun eases his tongue briefly, briefly inside. He loses his train of thought for four, five, six seconds, swimming in heady pleasure. “Not—not gonna. So don’t get your hopes up.”

Joonmyun hums again, eases again, curls his tongue, and oh, Jongdae loves him. He loves him so, so, so, so, so, _so_ much, whimpers as much as Joonmyun spares a broad lick, swirls before disengaging to mouth at his skin, all whisper soft kisses and lingering pecks. 

“It’s okay, Jongdae.” Joonmyun gifts him with another broad, wet, wet lick that has Jongdae's every nerve ending singing with white hot pleasure. And Jongdae _loves_ his fucking perfect tongue even if he so often uses it to say stupid, cheesy shit that makes Jongdae squirm in embarrassment. Fuck, Jongdae loves Joonmyun so fucking much. “Just do what feels right, baby,” Joonmyun continues, speaking against his ass cheek before dipping down to mouth again. He groans into him as he does, but his voice is entirely too steady, considering how shaky and fragile and frayed Jongdae sounds and feels. And maybe that's the point, giving Joonmyun this. It's his birthday, after all, his first one with Jongdae, and Jongdae has always given the best gifts. 

“Hyung,” he gasps, and he can feel Joonmyun’s lips curl, the pucker of them dragging over the pulsing flesh of his rim. Before Joonmyun redoubles his efforts, tongue pushing pushing pushing, hot and wet and deliriously skilled inside him.

And Jongdae’s every broken, breathless gasp feels right, feels honest, feels like the most considerate gift for Jongdae’s favorite mouth, favorite person. Favorite hands and fingers, too, grazing, testing testing testing. 

“Louder,” he urges, letting his lips catch on Jongdae’s skin in the most filthy appeal, finger easing its way slowly inside, curling lazily. He thrusts it once, twice, repeats the request as Jongdae grinds back onto the firm pressure. “Be louder, come on.”

And oh, Joonmyun’s tongue, his finger are just entirely too persuasive, entirely too perfect, hot and nimble as they work their way inside him, work in tandem, fuck fuck fuck him trembling and so loud. It’s too hot, too much, fuck fuck fuck, Jongdae loves this, loves him, loves, loves, loves everything. 

And then there’s another finger easing it’s way inside, wetter this time, curled and coaxing. A tremor shudders through his body, much too violent to be ignored. He collapses briefly into the sheets before being dragged back, ass-first towards Joonmyun’s mouth.

And Jongdae doesn’t bother smothering his loud, desperate whimpers. He wants Joonmyun to know how hot that is, so he’ll do it again and again and again. 

Understanding, because he’s fucking perfect, a fucking gift even though that’s Jongdae’s job for the night, Joonmyun doesn’t let go, arm rubbing against his cock as he holds him still and steady, eats him out so thoroughly Jongdae’s mind is utterly ruined with pleasure. 

And there’s another finger, Jongdae sobbing into his own trembling arm, biting into the skin, Joonmyun whispering about how much he wants to fuck him, please say yes. 

Jongdae barely has the energy to twist his head back to look at him, but it’s still so offensive, how he’s completely covered and only slightly breathless, only slightly disheveled, when Jongdae is a puddle of shaky limbs on his bed. 

“Fuck,” Jongdae grumbles. “You’re wearing so many clothes.” 

Joonmyun laughs, but still tugs them off, efficient if not a little clumsy with arousal. And there’s flushed skin, defined muscles curling forward towards him, caging him in with an exhilarating eagerness. 

And oh, Jongdae wants him. 

He’s his, his, _his_ for the taking. Balanced on his elbows, Jongdae arches his back once more, legs spread, ass cocked in invitation and provocation, voice purposefully husky as he whispers Joonmyun’s name, asks if he’s ready to open his present. 

“Not like—turn over,” Joonmyun whispers. “On your back.” Joonmyun’s fingers press into the nape of his neck, blunt fingernails provoking a helpless tremor as they scrape between his shoulderblades. “Wanna watch you. I'm the birthday boy." 

And Jongdae listens to him once more, silent but sultry as he splays himself open on the sheets. And Joonmyun is dragging him forward again, hands squeezing tight at Jongdae’s hips as he tugs him flush with his cock. And it’s still too fucking hot for Jongdae not to whimper as Joonmyun grinds in small, tight circles, his erection catching as it skims the cleft of Jongdae’s ass. Jongdae’s rim, weak with want, flutters around the blunt pressure, and he’s aching for it. But Joonmyun is so slow with adoration and appreciation, so cruel cruel cruel, watching him from beneath heavy eyelashes, looming over him with a flushed chest and sweat-beaded skin. He’s bitten his lip nearly bruised, and Jongdae wants to bite it even more, wants Joonmyun to look as ruined as he feels. 

Joonmyun is small like him. Tiny shoulders, short limbs, lean definition, but there’s a solidity there, an authority, a promise—when he tries. He’s trying now, and it makes Jongdae’s breath stutter in his throat. 

Shaky, Jongdae reaches out to brush his thumb over his mouth when Joonmyun continues to watch him, all the adoration, all the appreciation, all the heat, but with a paralyzed want. 

Joonmyun’s lips part beneath the pad of his thumb, and the caress seems to compel him into action. He kisses Jongdae’s finger, his wrist, grinds forward once more dropping Jongdae onto the mattress, groping at his side. 

Near Jongdae’s leg there are an upended bottle of lube—it’s _never_ fucking Jongdae’s fault that these sheets are such a mess—a sleeve of condoms. Joonmyun starts to reach for them before Jongdae shakes his head. 

“Don’t use them tonight,” he urges. He can feel Joonmyun’s eyes on him, so he looks down as he speaks. And it’s stupid probably to be this nervous around him—they’ve been together for nearly a year, they’ve both been tested—but this is the first time he’s asked him. “I want to feel you. Want you to come inside me.”

Joonmyun’s palm cradles his cheekbone, urges his gaze upwards. Their gazes lock for one beat, before Joonmyun’s falling over him to kiss him. A Joonmyun kiss, deep and utterly consuming, distracting enough for Jongdae to moan in surprise when Joonmyun shifts his hips enough to drag his cock against Jongdae’s. Jongdae’s legs wrap around his waist, and Joonmyun shifts again, lower, kisses in the meantime along Jongdae’s chin, his cheekbone, his nose, rests there as he angles himself appropriately. Jongdae winds his arms around Joonmyun’s shoulders, breathes in his every shuddery exhale, feels the muscle dancing beneath his skin as he presses finally inside. 

They’re forehead to forehead, closer than they’ve been in a while, and Joonmyun watches him the entire time, gaze steady even as his eyelashes flutter and his brows knit and his lips part with a ruined moan. Joonmyun breaks Jongdae apart with his eyes as he spreads him open with his cock. And Jongdae does what feels right once more, lets his body melt back into the sheets as Joonmyun bottoms out, kisses over flushed cheeks, sternum, chest as he asks him if he's okay. 

Joonmyun always fucking asks. Never just fucking _takes_ even when it’s his birthday, even when Jongdae feels fragile with the desire to just be fucking taken. 

“Treat me like I’m your baby boy,” Jongdae goads, something like defensive derision bleeding into his tone before he can stop himself. He breathes past the delicious stretch of it, bites back a moan before continuing. But softer, shakier. “Make me feel like calling you daddy.”

And Joonmyun does take then, in that slow, soft, frustratingly tender, awful way he always does. But it’s enough after being strung along for so, so, so long, and Jongdae feels hazy and hot with pleasure. 

And Joonmyun, mercifully, increases his pace. 

Jongdae’s fingers twist into the sheets, alternately in Joonmyun’s stiff, gel-tacky hair, sounds spilling forth from his bruised lips all the while. 

And Jongdae _refuses_ to call him anything but hyung, but he gasps and moans nonetheless, _feels_ it. He tears helplessly at Joonmyun's hair as he pants about how he doesn’t want him to ever stop, it feels so good, and he loves it. He loves it. He loves him. 

Jongdae rocks back towards every thrust, twisting, exposing his throat, digging his ankles into Joonmyun’s lower back to urge him closer. There’s a confession, too, in the ruined rasp of his moans, the pliance of his body beneath Joonmyun’s. 

And Joonmyun’s fingers sift through his hair, tender and excruciatingly intimate, a soft soft contrast to the hot, heavy push of his cock. 

Looming and overwhelming like this, he whispers feather-light kisses over the column of his throat, whispers shuddery confessions of how he wants to cradle him, keep him, treasure him, his present, his Jongdae, his love. His voice is shaky, too full, and _God_ it’s just like Joonmyun to cry during sex. It’s just like Jongdae to feel his heart clench at the realization

“It’s just like you to—how fucking dare you,” he huffs around a shaky whimper. And Joonmyun laughs, or tries to. It sounds too much like a moan. “You’re—I’m the baby boy.”

Joonmyun rocks harder at that, more than an edge of desperation into his next three, four thrusts.

“Your baby boy,” Jongdae repeats, and Joonmyun’s hands tighten enough to tug at his hair now. The flare of pain at his skull has Jongdae’s hands stumbling to his own cock, his stroke sloppy, fast, dry, but a relief as Joonmyun fucks him even faster. 

The drag is heavy, his hips collding on every push, his hand tight, his breath hot, his pulse racing against Jongdae’s chest, his fingernails dragging with the most delicious sing as they settle on his hips, tilt him upwards, more open for a more thorough pounding. 

And Jongdae would laugh but he’s desperate, too, maybe even more so—everything too hot and too wet and too hard and too much, as Joonmyun takes and takes and takes with a singular intent. 

“I love you,” Joonmyun whispers, or moans, all breathy and deep and affected. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And fuck, it's so hard sometimes, too much sometimes to be wanted so much and so earnestly by someone so _Joonmyun_. But Jongdae loves him, too, wants him, too, and he lets himself drown in the sensation of Joonmyun's lips at his throat, fingers at his waist, racing pulse against his chest, and oh, his cock hot and heavy and heaving as it drags inside of Jongdae at the most perfect fucking pace. 

It only takes two more tugs, Joonmyun’s teeth at his throat, for the sensations to crescendo. 

Orgasm tears through him, leaves him utterly helpless and breathless, and Joonmyun just fucks him harder, thrusts sloppier, more careless with impending orgasm. His moans are helpless, his fingers tight and possessive, his hips forceful and nearly violent.

Jongdae moans helplessly, too, grasps desperately at skin too, as Joonmyun falls apart above and in front of and inside him

“It’s your birthday,” Jongdae coaxes, voice entirely too frayed and breathy for his own taste,his own pride. But perfect for Joonmyun’s gift. “So come on, hyung. Come inside me and fill me up.” 

And Joonmyun, wonderfully lost in pleasure, stutters out a moan, hips stuttering inside him. And there is warm wetness spreading inside him, heating and claiming him completely, from the inside out as Joonmyun collapses into him and pants into his skin. 

Clumsy with satiation, he finds his lips. His post-coital kiss is languid with the afterglow, his lips barely moving, his hand soft as it sifts through his hair. 

Jongdae breathes him in on every shuddery inhale and is painfully grateful for him, achingly in love with him. 

"I love you," he whispers into his mouth, and Joonmyun smiles into the next kiss, thumb soft and reverent as it brushes over his cheekbone, presses there in a lazy, lazy caress that has Jongdae shivering in his arms, melting boneless and heedless and breathless into his love.

**Author's Note:**

> fake suho stan publishes "birthday fic" 6 days past deadline


End file.
